


Aftermath

by Katherine Gilbert (LFN_Archivist)



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M, Spoilers for Episode: S01E03 Simone, Spoilers for Episode: S01E22 Mercy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 05:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19245166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFN_Archivist/pseuds/Katherine%20Gilbert
Summary: This story was originally posted to the LFN Storyboard Archives by Katherine Gilbert.





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another early story from me. :)
> 
> The following is a during and post-"Mercy" story; part 1 takes place between or during events in the episode, while part 2 happens after it. It was all based on my own wild speculation and written before "Hard Landing" was aired, so it is no longer canonical to the series.
> 
> This story contains spoilers for both "Mercy" (surprise, surprise) and "Simone" (God, can I ever write a story without spoilers for this episode? ). I'm rating it MA-14. Because of what it's dealing with, not surprisingly, it's a rather dark story.
> 
> Hopefully, that covers everything. As usual, no infringement of any sort is intended with the following.
> 
> Alright, on with the story. :)

Waiting patiently for unbearable and unavoidable pain is never easy; life--and Section One--had taught Michael that many times over. He had received the summons to see Operations with dread--fearing what he knew was coming. He sat in his office now--five minutes to go until Operations wanted to see him. Time, for him, was more torment than hope; he felt like a condemned man waiting for dawn. 

The whole day had been like a bad dream, Michael thought--ever since Nikita had failed to kill Shays. He had lied for her the best he could, as he had several times before; this time, however, Operations wasn't allowing any excuses. It all was playing like a Section version of Greek tragedy, moving swiftly toward an inexorable, bloody conclusion. 

Michael thought back over the events which had led him here. After he had left Operations earlier, having failed completely in his attempt to protect Nikita, he had found Madeline waiting for him near his office; she had stood still--model-poised, hands in front of her, watching him expressionlessly: 

"Nikita." That was all she had said. 

Michael had tried to appear neutral. "What about her?" 

"She's about to kill herself," she had informed him flatly, searching his eyes for a second before leaving. She had known what he would do. 

When Michael had reached Nikita's apartment, he had feared she wouldn't answer. When she had, there was something in her eyes which confirmed Madeline's assessment. He had tried to give her the only way he knew around Operations' wrath: conformity, loss of self; he had known it would be a futile attempt--a path he wasn't even sure he had wanted her to take, but it was the only option left he could think of. 

Michael had been closer to Nikita that afternoon than he had been in months. He had never wanted to let her go, had wanted to just stand there, holding her for the rest of time. He had wanted to give her the will to continue--the strength to go on, but he knew that there was nothing in him which was of any use to her now. 

Michael closed his eyes for a second, fiercely repressing his emotions, knowing his five minutes was over. He sighed, opened his eyes, and then rose--going to meet the hangman with as much dignity as possible. 

****************** 

Madeline sat in her office for a half hour after she and Operations had given Michael his assignment, waiting for him to come. She wasn't disappointed. 

He walked in slowly, doors closing behind him. Madeline made sure he saw her press a button to cut off any possibility of outside surveillance. Michael stopped several feet in front of her desk and looked at her. She evaluated him; he practically had banshees tearing through his soul. 

"She's part of the mission," Michael stated more than questioned. 

"Yes," Madeline agreed. 

He looked down at her desk. "You couldn't change his mind?" 

"I didn't try to," Madeline told him. 

Michael looked up at her with the pain of betrayal in his eyes. "You want her dead?" 

"No," Madeline said quietly. 

Michael looked confused. 

"Michael," Madeline began slowly, looking down at her hands on the desk, "just how far would you go to protect her?" 

Michael didn't answer. He wondered whether he had just been trapped in one of Section's spider webs. 

Madeline looked back up at him--all business. "It's not a trick question; I have to know." 

Michael evaluated her for a second and decided that she was in her brutal-truth mode. "I'll do what it takes." 

"Would you let her go?" Madeline asked quietly. 

Michael narrowed his eyes at her. "What do you mean?" 

"Can you let her leave--disappear?" she continued. 

Michael shook his head. "That's not possible." 

"If it were . . .," Madeline prodded. 

Michael looked away for a second and thought about it. "If it were the only way to keep her alive--yes." 

Madeline nodded, opened up her drawer and took something out, got up, and walked over to him. He looked at her. "Can you follow my instructions completely?" 

"I have before," he answered. 

"Alright." Madeline held out a p.d.a. to him. "Give her this *immediately* before the mission; make sure no one else overhears." 

Michael took it and looked back at her. 

"You'll follow the mission profile as Operations presented it," she continued. "Before the building blows, I'll send a message--telling her to run." She looked more deeply at him. "You'll be able to reach her through this, once she's gone, but you'll never see her again. Is that understood?" 

Michael nodded warily. 

"Be clear on one thing, Michael," Madeline went on. "My loyalty is to the Section. If you try to contact her outside of the p.d.a., tell anyone else that she's alive, or warn her in advance of this mission, I won't stop Operations from canceling you both." 

Michael nodded slightly and thought for a second. "Why do this at all?" 

"It's very simple," Madeline explained. "Nikita is of no use to Section in her present state; you'll be of no use to us if she dies." 

Michael looked at the p.d.a. as though it represented all the hope he had on earth, and--in truth--it did. He put it in his pocket, looked back up at Madeline, gave her a half smile, and left. 

Once he was gone, Madeline smiled to herself. This day was going far better than she had ever expected. 

********************** 

Beautiful as she was that day, seeing Nikita walk down the hall toward the van was the most horrible sight of Michael's life. Although he couldn't have admitted it consciously, it affected him even more deeply than watching either of Simone's deaths or finding her scarred and half-insane from years of torture; at least at those times, he had tried to tell himself--for a while--that there was something he could do--some way he could influence events. It hadn't been true, but he had had some sense of control. Here, he could only watch and pray, and he knew--only too well--that it could all be a manipulation--a way to force him to take part in Nikita's death. 

When he looked back at Madeline, who stood watching, his eyes searched for reassurance. He didn't find it. 

Michael destroyed all possible good will toward him within Section One that day. He had never been friends with either Birkoff or Walter, but their interaction had always been relatively cordial; they had understood each other. That would never apply again. 

Michael had known that, in the end, Birkoff wouldn't be much of a problem; he simply didn't have the training to disobey orders too radically. Walter, though, was another story. Michael was just glad he didn't have to shoot him; he hadn't been sure how much it would take to stop him from trying to save Nikita. Fortunately, Walter's deep shock worked in his favor. 

As Michael sat holding Walter's hand down on the table with his left hand, a gun on him with his right, waiting for the coming explosion, he watched his companions. His own anguish was reflected clearly in them; they loved her, too. 

When the bomb blew, it shattered all three of their souls. Michael prayed that, on that day, Madeline hadn't lied. 

****************** 

Later on, in his office--after Operations had given him the usual excuses, he sent his message to Nikita--and waited. When no reply came, he tried to find something within himself which resembled hope enough to go on. 

Nikita received Michael's message, at first, with a small spark of joy. She remembered their dance a day ago, his eyes locked with hers, their hands together--his thumb stroking her palm. She thought back, too, on how, earlier that day--at the apartment she would never see again, he had held her delicately. Part of her yearned for the love--the deeper bond she had felt with him, but that part of her didn't win. 

Although Nikita trusted her instincts in most cases, she would blatantly ignore them when it came to Michael. She remembered, too well, a thousand manipulations--so many times he had pulled her close, only to betray her with a kiss. She had no way of knowing whether this were another example of his duplicity--another test. Remembering, she turned off the p.d.a. 

Nikita was a little afraid; she had a bullet in her left shoulder and her leg; she had no money or prospects beyond the $100 in twenties she had found with the p.d.a.; she had no identity; she was a walking threat to one of the most dangerous organizations on the planet, and she had no idea where she was going, but none of that mattered. Until they captured or canceled her, she was free. 

************* 

Nikita's newfound sense of freedom applied to few others in Section, after she left. 

Birkoff was in a state of shock. Nikita had been the closest to human of any of the operatives, and he had helped kill her. He had given destruct orders, listened to gunfire and explosions, come back from missions minus a few operatives any number of times, but this time was different. He had been uncomfortable being involved in the cancellation of the other Section operatives, but Nikita had been family. 

To those around him, Birkoff looked busy enough, but he saw nothing which came before him. Had he been running sims. on how to extract purple rhinos from the desert without disrupting the whippoorwill men, he wouldn't have noticed. All he could focus on was his mind's image of Nikita. 

She had helped him once, had gone out of her way to get him past his trauma after he killed someone for the first time, and he had simply sat and waited, while she was destroyed. If he lived to be a very old man, which in itself was unlikely in Section, he would never forgive himself for that. 

Birkoff looked up from the computer and saw Michael about to leave for the night. He began breathing more rapidly--seething. The man didn't deserve to live. Nikita had loved him, and he had ordered her death. Birkoff wondered, for a moment, how hard it would be to kill him; a few shoddy sims., an order he forgot to give--it could be done. 

Just before Michael left, though, he looked over at Birkoff briefly, and Birkoff saw the look in the older man's eyes--the soul-wracking pain he was containing. Birkoff smiled unpleasantly at him and abandoned his murderous plans. "Suffer, you bastard," he thought, as Michael turned to leave. Then, Birkoff hit some keys and arranged for Michael to be greeted with Nikita's file photo and an image of an explosion every time he turned on his office computer. 

*************** 

Michael made his way home that night desperately wishing that he knew whether or not Nikita had made it--whether Madeline had even sent the message. 

When he approached the door to his apartment building, he felt someone's eyes on him. He turned to see Walter pointing a gun at him. "What is it?" Michael asked quietly. 

"You know very well what it is, you son-of-a-bitch," Walter returned in a low, gruff voice. 

Michael looked around, relieved to see the street deserted. Then, he nodded. "Inside," he suggested. 

Walter's eyes narrowed. "No tricks," he warned. 

Michael shook his head, his eyes still filled with pain. "No." He turned and led Walter--who briefly pocketed his gun--into the building and apartment, never getting close enough to make him suspicious. Once Walter had closed the door, Michael turned back to him. 

Walter was pointing his gun at him again. "You let her die!" 

"They were orders," Michael replied softly, looking away. 

Walter was shaking with anger. "You *loved* her." 

Michael looked back at him. 

"She was the only decent thing in the whole rotten organization," Walter continued, half yelling. "She was the only good thing to happen to you since Simone. She was *beautiful*, and she had the poor taste to care whether you lived or died! How could you just order her death?" 

Michael looked away again, tears in his eyes. "I had no choice." 

Walter's fury boiled over. He ran up to Michael, took him by the collar, and shoved the muzzle of his gun painfully into his temple. "Don't give me that Section crap!" he demanded. "You were given an angel from God as a present," he was emphasizing his words by shaking Michael violently, "and you destroyed her!" 

Michael could have thrown Walter off, if he had wanted to, but he couldn't deny any of his words. Walter was almost the embodiment of Michael's conscience; everything he said was true. He looked up at him with red eyes. 

Walter had a ball of Michael's shirtfront in his hand and was pulling him within inches of his face. "Why shouldn't I just shoot you now?" he asked in a gruff whisper. 

Michael remembered, far too clearly, Nikita having asked him almost the same thing, and it only added to his pain. His eyes were tear-filled. He said the only thing which came into his heart: "Please." He nodded slightly. 

Walter's eyes widened at Michael's request. He let go of his shirt. He backed away a bit, still holding the gun on him but not holding it to his head. It was the first time he had really taken in Michael's pain; he had been too overwhelmed by his own before. He watched Michael for a few more seconds, before he spoke. "You deserve every bit of pain you get for the rest of your life." He paused. "May you live to be a very old man." He put the safety back on his gun, put it back in his pocket, looked at Michael once more, and left. 

When he had gone, Michael sank down into a chair, put a hand to his mouth, and closed his eyes, tears rolling slowly down his cheeks. "Please be alive, Nikita," he thought. 

Michael opened his eyes again, folded his arms across his chest, and sank back into the chair. His instincts told him that she was still out there--was still alive, but he hadn't trusted his instincts, since he had gotten Simone captured by Glass Curtain--when he thought she was dead. He had turned down the backup team, and Simone had been shot. He had cursed his instincts every day since. 

Of course, he had always trusted them, when it came to Nikita, but he couldn't admit that to himself. He had told himself numerous times that there were solid, logical reasons for protecting her. It terrified him far too deeply to realize that it was simply the natural instinct to protect the people you love. 

Michael sat there, barely moving, for almost 15 minutes. Then, realizing who he had to see, he finally stood up, brushed the tears off his face, and left the apartment. 

******************** 

Madeline was on her way to her car, finally leaving Section for the night, when she felt his presence. "What is it, Michael?" 

"We need to talk," he said, from behind her. 

She nodded, still not turning. "The Inferno--1 hour." Then, not hearing an objection, she left. 

When Madeline reached The Inferno, Michael was waiting for her. The place was aptly named. An S&M bar, it was filled with people who had long ago been taught to confuse violence with love. The atmosphere sickened Michael, and the patrons saddened him, but it was a perfect place to talk; in the end, no one there wanted to be remembered. 

Madeline and Michael, playing their parts, rented a room in the back for half an hour. Once inside, Madeline turned on a tape player of appropriate noises, so they could talk unharassed. 

"What is it?" she questioned. 

"Did you send it?" Michael asked, sadly, half-afraid of hearing her answer. 

"The message to Nikita? Yes, I did," Madeline assured him. 

"How long before the explosion?" he wondered. 

"About a minute," Madeline informed him. "Enough time for her to get out--not enough to bring anyone with her or to alert them." 

Michael nodded. 

"Have you tried sending her a message?" Madeline continued. 

"Yes," Michael replied. 

"But she didn't respond," Madeline stated. 

"No," Michael said softly, looking away. 

"You're afraid she's dead," Madeline analyzed. 

Michael looked up at her with pain-filled eyes. 

Madeline smiled. "Nikita's resourceful. I'm sure she's fine." 

"Then, why won't she answer?" Michael wondered, like a little boy asking cosmic questions. 

"You haven't exactly always been honest with her," Madeline pointed out quietly. 

Michael shook his head. "I was just doing what Section needed me to." 

"I know that," Madeline nodded, "but Nikita doesn't always see it that way." 

Michael sighed and looked down. 

"You *are* Section One to Nikita, much of the time," Madeline continued. 

Michael shook his head. "I never *wanted* to hurt her." He looked back up at her. 

"I know," Madeline reassured him quietly. 

Michael looked off at the wall. 

"What will you do if she never responds--if you never have proof?" she asked. 

"I don't know," he whispered. He looked back at her. 

Madeline nodded. "Come on," she said after a pause, approaching him with some makeup. "Chin up." She applied what appeared to be newly- made bite marks to his neck. 

Michael was too lost in thought to take in what she was doing. As she was finishing, though, he looked back down at her and took her hand gently. "You didn't let her die?" he whispered, begging for confirmation. 

Madeline held his hand. "No," she assured him softly. 

The noises on the tape were winding down. Michael held her hand and looked at her for another minute. Then, when the tape ended, he left. 

Madeline smiled slightly, when he was gone. Then, she pulled out a small mirror and began applying a bruise to her face. 

Her plan was going very well. Nikita, she knew by the tracking device she had put in her p.d.a., was well out of the city; the young woman could now get the few months' illusion of freedom she needed in order to continue being a viable operative. Operations, too, was having his chance at catharsis, when it came to the girl; the supposed cancellation had made him the happiest she had seen him in years. 

The whole thing, as well, was a wonderful test of Michael's loyalties--the best since Operations had given Simone to Glass Curtain. Madeline had been sad to see Simone go, but she had known it was necessary. Michael's feelings for her--despite Section's attempts to destroy or loosen the bonds between them--had too frequently gotten in the way of his work--a mistake he had never made with Nikita; he had learned the lesson of caring too much. Madeline was sure, too, that, when it was time to pull Nikita back in, Michael would be the perfect foil. 

In all truth, Madeline had never intended to let Nikita go. Operations' dislike of her blocked him from seeing just how talented she was. Madeline was grooming her to take her place one day--though not for a decade or so, she hoped. Michael had been chosen long ago to be the next Operations, which explained part of the present Operations' dislike for him; Nikita would work well alongside him. Besides, Nikita was far more interesting to profile than most of the operatives; it was a pleasure Madeline wasn't willing to give up. 

Her bruise applied, Madeline put away her mirror and make up and smiled. Everything was as it should be.


End file.
